


the memoirs of a man out of his time

by colonellaurens



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, 18th Century CE RPF
Genre: American Revolution, Civil Rights Movement, Cold War, Concentration Camps, French Revolution, M/M, Memoirs, Napoleonic Wars, Revolutions of 1848, SEAL Team Six, Selma to Montgomery marches, September 11 Attacks, Student Revolts of 1968, The Art of Seduction, Vampires, Velvet Revolution, War of 1812, War on Terror, World War I, World War II, basically all of western history since the amrev lol, roaring 20's, the great depression, vampire!john laurens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 05:25:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6941668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonellaurens/pseuds/colonellaurens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My life, graciously extended by a gorgeous man in the Forest, has been a rather long one as of yet, filled with the grueling violence of history and the throes of impatient lovers. Such a life should not go untold.<br/>It is this life I lead that brings me to my current place of residence: Manhattan. New York. Although I do prefer teaching in Europe, I would be a fool if I missed the chance to see my Dear friend Hamilton's story retold, centuries later.</p><p>These memoirs of mine tell the tale of every single moment that led to this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the memoirs of a man out of his time

**Author's Note:**

> since I have a knack for writing things when I have big tests coming up.....

These memoirs are my way of making sure that I am still somewhat sane, despite my knowing that I am (and knowing that it is impossible for me to be _in_ sane). It is also a way for me not to forget my true origins (which does not include something that a _Wikipedia_ page or a Tumblr blog would tell you about my life). I have lived a long life. I have seen many, many things in my extended time, and I will continue to do so until the day someone decides to impale my chest with a stake, or someone decides to hunt me down with a bit of sterling silver. Until then, I will continue to record major happenings of my life in this piece of technology that is younger than I could ever hope to be. And in these happenings, I open with Geneva.

  


Geneva was a lovely city when I first knew it.

It was the city where I had first learned my abolitionist ideals, where I had met amazing men of their time, and where I had gotten the first part of my formal education. The city itself held a special place near my heart, as one that made me feel alive and one that effectively killed me.

It was like Schrödinger’s cat in that regard. Geneva is the place where John Laurens died. It is also the place that he was reborn. It’s impossible for me to remember it any other way. And yet, to this day, I still visit it every so often. I have been many times over the years to teach history at various universities in four different languages: English, French, German, and Italian. (I could never quite grasp Romansh as well as I had the other three. Perhaps one day, I will dedicate myself entirely to learning it.)

One stormy night in 1772, as I was commuting from the main part of the city to my place of residence, I wandered into a forest. A forest that is still, to this day, impossible for me to locate. I knew not what to call it. I still do not. It was simply _the Forest._ My memories of that night are fuzzy around the edges. I can’t remember what I had hoped to achieve by going, alone, into the Forest. Perhaps, I sought out shelter from the freezing rain that pelted down upon the earth, hoping that, since God Himself was not about to cease His relentless attack of rain, I might find some sanctuary within the trees until I might walk the rest of the way back to my Apartment without fear of catching a chill. It wouldn’t do for me to catch a then-incurable illness that I might have never recovered from. My Dear friend, mister Kinloch, was awaiting my arrival at the time, after all.

I have, since then, given up on my belief in God. What was the point, really? A being such as myself has no soul worth salvation. Should I die (which is as unlikely as it is silly), it will be in a pile of ash, swept away by the winds that travel the Earth. There would be nothing left.

(Others, however, are allowed to worship as they please.)

In taking refuge within the trees, I heard something of a whisper. It could have been the whisper of the wind through the leaves, or so I initially thought. I found myself listening closely. _Come here_ , it seemed to hiss. Inviting. Tantalizing. Some magical force drove my feet to walk, one in front of the other, although the rest of my self seemed paralyzed. I could only watch them with great wonder, thinking it to be not strange, but rather, interesting, for them to be moving on their own was a new discovery to me at the time. (It seems like such a feat is easy with beings such as myself.) I could not watch for long, as that whisper, that voice, clung to me like a vice, taking a bite into my psyche and refusing to let go with all of its might. It drove me deeper and deeper into the Forest. The sound of rain seemed far away. The voice whispered to me, a deep, accented rumble: _come, join me._ How was I to resist? I was utterly trapped, helpless, caught in the grasp of a mythical being that now drew me in with the utmost means of seduction. I was close, oh-so close to its source. It was dizzying. Even now, as I recount the tale, my memory of it is somewhat unreliable.

The voice itself stopped without warning, as one might when encountered with a brilliant idea for the first time. I was rooted to the spot. I could make out a clearing of sorts in the moonlight.

 _The moonlight?_ I remember thinking. _Is it not true that all of Geneva is engulfed in a storm? How odd!_ Not a single cloud could be discerned from within the bright night sky, nor could any bit of moisture be seen on the many flowers and blades of grass growing from the Earth herself. I was almost certain that the rain could not have stopped on a whim like that, and stop in such a way that everything might be dry. Could this have really still been Geneva?

Might it have been a trick of the mind? Was it really raining that night? Or was my perception of my surroundings wrong? Could an unknown amount of time have passed while I made my way through the Forest? Certainly, it must have been some other force that I could not have had the capacity (in my dazed state) to recognize.

I could dwell on it no longer. There was a rustling sound before me. It was there that I saw what could have been the most gorgeous man that I had ever seen in my life. He emerged from behind the trees, his hair as long as a maiden’s ought to have been at the time, pleasantly curly and chestnut colored, from what I could tell, braided behind his back; and his chest – _oh_ , his chest – with defined muscles under the skin and pale in the moonlight, remained bare and perfectly visible to my eyes. His bottom half was regrettably clothed, but I wished to both drop to my knees to _pray_ in front of this man and to look away until he was fully clothed to allow him any shred of decency.

I, however, did none of that. As he stalked towards me, I remained rooted in my place. It was as if the roots from the nearby nature had suddenly grown and wrapped around my legs, effectively dooming me to watch as this visually stunning man stirred something within my stomach – whether that was fear or arousal, I did not know.

As this man locked eyes with me, something told me that I should flee. It may have been the way his blue eyes darkened considerably, too much so to be considered a trick with the lighting. Or it may have been the fact that I couldn’t move. Whatever the case, as he got within close proximity of my face, I found that his scent was calming to me. He bore a distinct resemblance to someone that I would know years later.

It was with such sudden force that he kissed me, I couldn’t help but let out an embarrassing squeak. His kiss was intoxicating. I could hear my blood rushing in my ears, feel my pulse thrumming frantically under my skin, and _taste_ the utter _sweetness_ of his lips. He laid his hands over my hips and brought me close, almost like a lover, and ground his hips against my own. I can still feel him pressed against me as I write these words. It's almost as if the scar of his frame, hands and all, lingers on my body.

The art of seduction.

I, at the time, was no stranger to this, but that did not mean that I was familiar with it in its entirety.

Such an action permitted me to suck in a bit of air into my lungs, and this otherworldly being took that as his cue to ravish my neck. I could not help but to tilt my head so that he may have better access, as I was completely and utterly inebriated; one of his hands had slithered up the side of my torso and had found itself settling on the side of my face, gently angling my head away from his own. I knew not why I did not run while I had the chance. Here was this breath-taking man, the absolute picture of masculinity and strength, kissing a stranger in the Forest. He had not uttered a word to me before beginning his administrations – a feat that could be easily forgiven, had I stayed around long enough to get his number (if such things existed back then, of course) – but it was no matter to me.

I confess, I may have overindulged too soon, as the next instant, there was a sharp, excruciating pain at the source of my pleasure. My jaw dropped in a half-formed scream, but my voice refused to work, leaving me gaping like a fish out of water. I writhed in pain under him as he, quite literally, _sucked_ the life out of me. The word for this creature came to my mind as soon as I heard him swallow.

_Vampire._

On my journey back from the main part of the city of Geneva, I had stumbled upon a small village, the residents of which had warned me that a creature such as the man sucking the life out of me had begun to lurk around the area, and that a few of their daughters had already been plucked away from their houses in the middle of the night, never to be seen again. They had begun to lock their doors at night, securing them with any piece of wood or metal that would prevent anything from coming in or going out. I remember them advising against me going any further with my trek back home, pointing out that despite the early hour, the sun was already going to rest. One family offered me shelter in one of their spare bedrooms. It was at that moment that the rain had begun. I couldn’t say yes. I was wearing something that, even if they had put together all of their salaries, they would not be able to afford. I pitied them, I admit. It wouldn’t feel right for them to bestow upon me such kindness, only for me to not give them anything in return. They didn’t look as though they could spare a crust of bread. I _had_ to politely decline.

As I walked along, I thought of their warning to me. Had I believed it? Of course not. Such things only existed in fairy tales, or nighttime stories that a parent would tell a child to scare them into falling asleep.

But, as my mind grew increasingly fuzzy and the only thing holding me up was the _vampire’s_ grip on me, it became a reality. No longer were blood-sucking “monsters” a piece of dramatic fiction.

 

I came to with a heightened sense of awareness. I felt the coolness of the blades of grass I had been laid upon, the rustling of a creature scampering in the wood, and the very prominent feeling of the presence of one like me, standing just a few feet away. I lifted myself with my arms, startled at the sudden strength with which they were bestowed. My eyes were no longer render’d useless in the darkness. I could see as if the sun were awake. As I stood up, I felt agile in every way humanly possible. In not heeding the villagers’ advice, I had effectively crossed the Rubicon.

“What have you done to me?” I demanded of the almost-man. The moon was directly overhead. It could have been midnight. 

“I have given you life,” he said to me. “Men like you need not live in fear.”

To which I thought: _Men like me?_ I could not begin to imagine what that meant. I was not given the chance to ask, as directly after making his previous statement, he said:

“Enjoy the life you have been given.”

And then he was gone.

 

I have not seen the man that started my new life since. I was, for a while, terribly confused. What was I to do? I found that the sunlight would burn my skin, requiring me to apply copious amounts of cream onto my skin to help alleviate that pain. With my new “life” came many consequences. For instance, my newly acquired strength took _months_ to harness, and even then, I still lose control of it from time to time, despite my best efforts. Another thing that came with this was the fact that my face was now frozen in time. I suppose that I am now grateful for the fact that as a seventeen year old, I looked older. But this also meant that I could not stay around a set of people for too long before their suspicions began.

Perhaps it was for this reason that I heeded my father’s wishes to move back to London in 1774 to begin to study law.


End file.
